


How He Says It (Without Speaking)

by Jadenite



Series: Past, Present, Future. [2]
Category: Longmire (TV), Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: F/M, First Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadenite/pseuds/Jadenite
Summary: Four loves, gently entwined across space and time.
Relationships: Martha Longmire/Walt Longmire
Series: Past, Present, Future. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938205
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Rumination: 1984 / 2007

**_Wyoming, Absaroka: 1984_ **

Walt loved Martha, and there was not a man alive or dead in Absaroka Country who would dare dispute that fact. The sky was blue, the water was wet, and Walter “Eugene” Longmire loved Martha. They were high school sweethearts. A story like every romance movie housewives sighed and swooned over. Everyone and their cousin knew that. Why, sometimes she felt like everyone from here to _Sheridan_ knew that, too. Now, Walt wasn’t an overly demonstrative man in public locations. He spoke with actions, fists of justice, and a mind for the law. 

There was a smattering of drunks and assholes scattered through Absaroka who had learned that lesson the hard way, starting with Buck Thompson. She knew the man she had married and he was a quiet and private man, not prone to unsought violence. But he was not a meek man, either, who would let go of a wrong done to another more helpless person be it man or woman or child.

Walt was a gentle man, one who couldn't abide the beating of a horse or the tears of a woman.

Or littering, he _hated_ that with a low burning passion.

It was endearing, and annoying, because he always stopped to pick up other people’s junk. He thought it was rude and thoughtless to toss garbage into the street, knowing it would become someone else's problem to fix. 

He was a man who liked to believe in the best of people, which landed him in hot water a few times over the years. It hurt, a bit, seeing his hopes dashed against the rocks of human depravity and indifference.

He was what people around here called the genuine article, the last real cowboy, and a good man.

Sadly, her parents hadn’t been able to see past his lack of money.

Still -- the times of arranged marriages between parents was a thing of the past and Kevin Chandler had graciously accepted her absolute, but kindly, refusal. Her heart was bound up in Absaroka, and the quiet boy with the pretty blue eyes, not Texas. It would never have worked; Kevin was a proper young man, with other upstanding qualities besides his Daddy’s bank account, with an attractive face.

His only fault was not being Walter. 

Walt had an uncommon kindness that ran straight through the heat of him, he never blamed her parents for not liking him. He never blamed Chandler for trying, and failing, to _win_ her hand. What was it he had said, “How could I fault him for seeing in you what I see?”

In a coquettish mood, wanting to hear while he was willing to speak she’d pressed for more, “which is?” she had asked.

He’d looked at her a spell, considering, before speaking. “Someone worth living, dying, and fighting for -- not necessarily in that order.”

Whatever fragments of her heart that hadn’t already fallen for Walter did so then, with such a forceful tug she felt as if something inside her was cracking, and being re-forged. She’d been his ever since, as he had been entirely _hers_ in return.

That was something no one knew better than Martha Longmire, his kindness. In many ways, for them, it had begun not with a beautiful sunny day where their eyes met during a dance or a picnic or the hubbub of a bake sale and selling peach jams. But in a quiet, dim-lit, classroom, where her mascara had made a runny mess of her face and her eyes were puffy and red from tears. 

That was the real beginning of _them_. She knew her husband and that he loved her as much as he loved his county, his land, and his horse. Quite frankly it amounted to quite a lot. Sometimes, just sometimes, when she was alone too long and thinking too much, it worried her, just a little.

How ridiculous it would sound, as if she would be willing to give up even an ounce of the love he had shown her. But the thought trickled in, here and there, what if she went first.

Youth, like the bloom of roses in spring, did not last forever in vibrant luster and rich colors of yellow, pink, and red.

With time, and age, came unpredictableness of health.

She had never told Walt, nor would she, but both of her mother's older sisters died of cancer.

It ran in the family. 

So, sometimes she caught herself worrying about what might happen, in the future.

Not for herself, but for him.

And then she would see Walt, his eyes lit up as he talked to her, hands gesturing when he spoke and she forgot every other thought in her head that wasn’t about Walter. Snugly fit in the moment as they were, the notion of anything beyond the man before her and the life they were planning became a distant far off after-thought, no longer worthy of consideration _._

_That will not be me,_ she had thought, ensconced in the happiness of being newly married and well loved. And she disregarded the errant thought that had slipped into her mind like an uninvited guest at the dinner party, turning her attention to other things instead. Learning to read the silence of her husband, the importance of the pause between, before, and after the words he chose.

The things he said, without ever needing to break the air with sounds. 

Though, it was lovely to hear spoken aloud, she would admit that much. But there were many ways to say it, the things carried within the heart, without speaking. In that arena Walter was a matter of the unspoken, and she had a degree in translation of _Walter-actions to Things-Walter-means-to-say_. 

Walt, for instance, said _‘I love you’_ when he listened to how her day at _the Journal_ went with his entire focus, leaning into her space, his eyes narrowing and his brows drawing tight in anger with whatever the local ass at the office had done or said to her.

He said _‘I love you’_ with how he touched her, gentle-like as if she were made of fine china.

The deep warmth in his voice when he called her _‘sweetheart,’_ she knew this because Walt was not a pet name kind of man. 

Her best friend Helen dated him for a month in 1978, in bygone high school days, before breaking it off to date Johnny Sullivan who now owned the car dealership across town. Never once did that endearment or any other slip from his tongue. Helen hadn’t liked his reticence and his quiet-manner; she had been more accustomed to loudmouths and jerks than a genuine gentleman.

Martha snorted to herself, her hand tightening around her mug, seating in the chair that folded out from the wall, her empty paper plate on the also foldable table that was used for meals. It was small, this place, but it was theirs. Land inherited from Walt’s father, the trailer a reluctant gift from her father and mother as a late wedding present when they made plans to move out here and put up the cabin.

It was January, which was often the coldest month around these parts, the tough Absaraoka shifted between mild and cold spells at the drop of a hat. She’d lived here her whole life, and she still didn’t like the mercurial shiftiness of the climate, but she loved the place, and Walt, too much to consider leaving. This was his home, he would never be happy somewhere else.

Martha wrapped the purple afghan tighter around her shoulders, warding off the brisk draft that always snuck in through the windows.

She had plastered duck tape along the edges to keep out the worst of it and mostly it worked. It looked tacky, but it kept the trailer warm. 

She sat back in her chair deciding it was a day for reliving the past, apparently, which often had her thinking of Helen, her once best friend, before life and impossible differences came between them. 

Helen, preferring bad boys and teenage biker-boys with blingy silver studs, probably hadn’t known what to do with a boy like Walt after she _got_ him. Lord alone knew how that had happened in the first place. Helen had never said, Martha never asked. She could have asked Walt, but seeing as how it was water under the bridge and long in the past she’d never seen the point.

Any talk of other girls he had seen, few as they were, made him fidget and blush and _stammer_. It was adorable, but also kind of mean to put him through that for no good reason.

He felt like it was cheating, somehow, though only God, and Walt knew how he came to that conclusion. 

So she didn’t press and she didn’t ask.

Helen, though, hadn’t been able to understand why Walt didn’t want to get hot and heavy at Blackbird Bluff. He had been more of a movie and dinner, an arm around the back of the chair, and a kiss on the cheek for a good night sort. Turned out he wasn’t _‘one of them,’_ \-- like Helen groused -- he just hadn’t been that into Helen who wanted to drape herself on his arm like arm-candy and have him say all the things she wanted to hear. 

Walt hadn’t known what to do with _Helen_ either, it had been funny for a while to watch but after that, it was apparent that it wasn’t going to work. Maybe she should have intervened sooner, but she was busy trying to be the impartial observer and _friend_ , which was why she kept her mouth, shut and let it play out like she had. 

Doing nothing had almost ruined Walt. Helen had come within an inch of cutting him to the quick with vulgar rumors to save face when they split. 

Martha remembered having it out with Helen in private when she shared her plans. She’d been mad as a wet hen with her for saying such a thing, that he was into boys and _not_ girls. She honestly didn’t think that was it at all. They just didn’t work, Helen was tumbleweed following the breeze, and Walt was an oak with his roots dug deep into the heart of Absaroka. 

He didn’t sway in the ways Helen wanted or needed. That was the good thing about watching the beginning and end of their fling from the sidelines; she saw it more clearly than either of them. Helen and Walt just weren’t cut from the same cloth. But that had been no kind of excuse for Helen to mouth off like that. If the wrong ears caught on that could have been disastrous for Walt to live down. The idea had made her sick, not that it might be true, but the damage careless rumors caused in small towns. 

Sam Miller wrote _‘Sarah O’Hara is a whore’_ on the boys’ bathroom stalls, word spread as it was known to do, and the girl ended up committing suicide. In some situations things said became public truth, no matter the right or the wrongness of it. Things like that got magnified in small towns where everyone thought they knew their neighbor. Then it would come out, in a splash, _‘no, Tommy wasn’t sneaking out to see Sally, he was sneaking around with Simon,’_ and people in small towns felt betrayed. As if the news they were in a tizzy about now was somehow their God-given r _ight_ to know.

Families fought, broke, and moved, over nonsense like that. 

She loved her town, she loved its people, too, mostly, but she had known the drill. Even as a young girl, a person didn’t go around saying what Helen wanted to, what Sam Miller had painted in the boy’s bathroom for attention he wasn’t getting from his ex-girlfriend, Sarah. 

It just wasn’t done. She supposed Sam and Helen hadn’t paid attention to the lessons lids had doled out. Or, more likely, they hadn’t cared.

The local coroner, Davis Johnson, had declared her a virgin at the time of her death and ruled it a suicide.

It had been an easy open and shut case for the sheriff's department.

There’d been a rash of bizarre animal attacks that year, bears clawing into cabins, abnormally large wolves stalking campers, and ruining tourism. _‘Mother Nature Strikes Back!’_ was one headline she recalled.

The local hunters had been on edge for three months, claiming at local bars and hangouts that it didn’t behave like any bear or wolf they knew.

Everyone was relieved to have a normal death, terrible, as it was, not that a single God-fearing soul in Absaroka would admit as much.

They were all thinking about it -- at least it wasn’t another of those bizarre deaths.

Local forensics was baffled and excited, very excited, but the people had been scared. They lived in those woods, they hunted in those woods, and something was out there, picking them off. It always sat wrong with humans, not being at the top, and this, whatever this was; it wasn’t going to roll over any time soon. Martha recalled the mandatory curfew that had lasted for over three months, until out of the blue, the killings stopped.

She had felt bad, and been a little scared, but safe. She didn’t live on the Reservation; she didn't go to the Reservation, so long as she kept to that she was fairly safe. Most of the victims had been Native Americans.

_‘_ _An Indian Killer’_ another article had read. It had been more or less accurate; Sheriff Lucian had been at his wits end, drinking like never before when he realized he couldn’t stop the attacks. People around him at the time said he’d said a lot of crazy things at the time. 

“Mystical Indian bullshit,” Omar had insisted.

“Maybe,” Walt had said, shrugging in a way that could have meant anything at all. Omar took it as agreement, and that was the end of the conversation.

Martha had said nothing, but her mind had turned to the apple tree and the Indian who had appeared from thin air, and disappeared in the same way. Strange things existed; it was the height of presumption to assume that the knowledge they had now encompassed _all_ of what had ever been known _and_ all that would ever _be_ known about the world.

Bizarre deaths and Indian apparitions included. 

Martha leaned back in her chair, tugging the afghan tighter around her shoulders. This time it was not the chill air that made her shiver. It had been a strange, dangerous time, and she was glad when all the strange happenings had ended.

Sarah hadn’t needed to die, and certainly not over some stupid boy, but she had because when word spread everyone who had ever disliked her or been jealous of her had piled right on top.

It had been too much for her to handle, and children could be very cruel.

If she remembered correctly, and she believed she did, the poor girl, Sarah, had OD’d on pills, just gone off to sleep and never woken. 

Martha supposed there were worse ways to go like the _out of towner_ Jane Doe who was attacked up at _Penrose Trail_ , ripped to shreds, or run over by a yellow minivan like the Smithson fella in a freak accident, last week. 

Sam got a reprimand from the sheriff and a night in a cold jail cell, after that he was turned loose. Wasn’t much more Sheriff Lucien could do, legally. But, being a small town word was Sam had walked out with a black eye and busted pride. People said the Sheriff had scared him straight; Sam hadn’t touched a paint-can since then. It was the only _justice_ Molly O’Hara got for her daughter's death.

It still moved Martha to angry tears, 5 years later, that Brian O’Hara had felt the need to vindicate his daughters’ _virginity_ when Sarah was dead.

Why that had mattered to anyone, especially her family, she didn’t know. On the tail of that debacle, Helen had tried to ruin Walter Longmire, the sweetest boy she’d ever know, and she hadn’t stood for it. She hadn’t spoken up for poor Sarah, she’d be damned if she kept her mouth shut again. Helen and she had had a heated conversation in an empty classroom during lunch hour. Helen tried to make herself feel better by talking bad about the only boy in school who hadn't tried to get into her panties. But Martha shot the idea clear out of the sky. 

“You do that and you’ll be branding him as surely as if you took a hot iron to his skin yourself. He’s got his whole life ahead of him. Tell me, are you that much of a cold-hearted bitch that you’d ruin that because he wouldn’t have sex with you?” she had asked.

“It’s not just that,” Helen had whined, rolling her eyes. “Did you know his middle name is Eugene? I don’t want to be remembered as _Helen Clarise Devereux_ , the girl who went to prom with _Walter Eugene Longmire_!”

“Helen!” she had said, her face less than delicately arranged she was sure, as she verged on what felt like a case of apoplexy. Of all the hair-brained ideas Helen had spouted, and there had been a few, that had been the worst of them. 

She’d never wrapped her head around Helen’s socialite etiquette tendencies but that had been the beginning of the end for their friendship. Lord knew she tried not to judge others, lest she be judged in _return_ but Helen made it damn hard with her small-minded, social ladder-climbing ways. She wasn’t the girl she’d known back in middle school, with the sweet smile and shining eyes. Her mother remarried and she changed. 

It had been a rocky year; to be honest, older and wiser she pitied Helen more than she could as a young girl who barely recognized what was happening, her heart fluttering when she saw Walt in the halls and homeroom. Later, much later, the scandal came out about the new Mr. Deveroux’s drug habit and shady dealings but by then Helen was 18, jaded, and hated the world. The truth didn’t do her any favors; the news chewed her up and spat out the bones. To his credit, her then-boyfriend stepped up and married her, got her out of _that_ house, and off the newspaper headlines.

But that was hindsight for you, a real bitch sometimes. 

Back then; she’d been a 14 years old girl, a walking bottle-keg of intermixed emotions and feelings and desires that felt as big and expansive as the Absaroka skies. Everything had felt imminent and important; sometimes it had been like with Sarah and Walt, but not always. She’d been too young to see past what _she_ wanted. 

Just before the summer break, she’d caught Buck Thompson kissing Sally Jennings in the janitor's closet, like every bad romance cliché she knew of, it came from reality. If a person wanted privacy in a bustling high school? That was one of the few options available. She had made a scene. She wasn’t proud of it, but it happened. 

No matter what Walter liked to say she wasn’t perfect.

At the time she’d stomped off to fix her running mascara and wait out the redness irritating her eyes, which were still on the verge of yet more unwanted tears. She _hated_ crying in public, but it was the involuntary reaction to a broken heart. 

This had been how Walt came across her. He’d heard about the row and came looking. To check on her. This had been a while after he and Helen split so it hadn’t had anything to do with checking on his girls’ friend. 

He’d just genuinely wanted to see if she was okay. That was the first real impression she got of Walter separate from the _‘Helen’s boyfriend’_ label she had attached to him. He’d perched himself on a desk beside her, leaving enough space between for a whole other person, not speaking for a while, just keeping her company as she pulled it together. 

“Don’t pay any mind to Buck, he can’t help being stupid,” that was it, that was all he said the whole time. 

What he didn’t say was more important. He didn’t brush it off like nothing, as he dad would, and he didn’t say it was just a silly crush, in a high-handed manner her mother would chide _tsk-tsking_ at the mess she’d made with her running mascara. From then on she wouldn’t buy the cheap stuff. Not because she planned on it happening again but because of the feeling of not measuring up in her mother's regard. 

However, it would never happen again. Walt, for all his faults, never made her cry in the halls because he’d stepped out with a girl two years older and, in the whole school's loud opinion, ten times prettier.

They had sat there, quiet as church mice, not saying a word to each other, and it had been nice.

She remembered best the kindness of his eyes and his honest face.

It stuck with her.

That had been the moment when she knew.

Walter Eugene Longmire was _it_ for her. 

There was a long song and dance that lasted two years but from that point on it was _Martha and Walter_. And maybe, just maybe, she heard about Buck walking into a locker and busting his nose. But Walt never said and she never mentioned the scrapes on his knuckles.

Karma was a bitch, too.

Literally. 

Sally dumped Buck when it became clear his case of ‘broken nose’ wouldn’t clear up. They were done a week before prom. That was it, in a nutshell. How _Martha Met Walter_ and no other boy would do. She fell in love with his quietness, his gentle heart, and his winning smile. 

She laughed under her breath, bringing her steaming mug close to her lips and blowing across the surface. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs -- _their_ story. Walt was a man of action, not words. And he gauged others by the same measure. Walt said _‘I love you’_ with the trust he placed in her, and how he never questioned her working late at _the Journal_ with Teddy.

He wasn’t like poor Samantha’s husband, Jim, who badgered her when she came home late. Martha, if she were a betting woman, would lay odds the marriage wasn’t going to last. Walt was an uncommon breed of man; he had patience, a working brain between his ears, and a strong desire to please his wife. 

Helen had lost out and Martha knew she wouldn’t have it any other way, no matter how much she wished she’d been a better friend. Walt’s love was as steady and abiding as the surety of summer warmth and winter nights spent cuddling by the fireplace.

The words didn’t easily trip off his tongue, not like the poetry he read to her or the pleasing cadence of his voice that washed over her as he strummed his guitar, but when he said it, he _meant_ it. That was all that mattered.

It was only after they were married that Walt told her what his middle name was like it was a state secret and she would have kicked him to the curb if she’d found out before tying the knot. A convoluted notion if ever there was one. She let him tell it, even though she already knew because it seemed to matter to him and so for that reason alone it mattered to _her_.

He joked when he said it, _‘Walter Eugene Longmire, ma’am’_ , but she could see the residue of old hurt peeking out of his beautiful blues when he admitted that was why Helen dumped him. Martha never told him how close his ex came to spreading vicious rumors because of injured pride; there was no need to poke old wounds. Johnny Sullivan had been the rebound guy, and eventually the husband. 

Irritation pricked at her, how easily Helen could have ruined life in Absaroka for Walter, especially in those times. It wasn’t like that so much anymore. Not with the current laws. How easily life could have pivoted, it worried her sometimes. How fast the rug could be pulled out from a person's feet. 

Martha snorted, inelegant and crude, she couldn’t help it, thinking of them always got her back up in the worst way, Johnny and Helen Sullivan.

_They were a matched pair, those two._

She and Helen stopped talking before she took up with Walter, making it official in the _Spring Fling_ of 1979. Helen and her had a stupid fall out over a borrowed dress -- it was the straw to break the camels back. They’d been growing apart, but that theft signaled the end. Helen took it, that wasn’t what she had cared about. It was the lying she couldn't abide. If Helen had asked at the time she would have given her anything she wanted from her closet, even if they weren’t as close as they had once been.

Clothes didn’t mean much to her.

They still didn't, except for the things that made Walt’s eyes linger appreciatively on her body, his gaze a warm caress on her skin. Those she made a record of for later uses and purposes.

So, she knew Walter loved her, which was never in question. But she didn’t understand why he hadn’t told her about the picture stashed in his _Whitman_ book. The Indian. She hadn’t been searching for anything but it had fallen out and when she made mention of the old drawing in the book he’d shrugged and become monosyllabic. 

Well, more monosyllabic, which honestly? She didn't know that was even possible. The secret, that’s what was nettling her. What did it matter, it was a nice drawing, she had thought he’d be proud, or something? Not _this_. Whatever this was, which she still wasn’t sure, because he would _talk_ to her.

_Dammit, Walt._

She crossed her arms, frowning. 

_The Indian._ All this because of a picture from what she’d dubbed the _Apple Tree Incident of 1981_.

Her tea mug hit the table in the little trailer she called home, a few specks of water hitting the edges of the drawing. She cleaned it away, quick and desperate to preserve the image. Again, she hadn’t the faints why, only that it mattered. Not because of Walt, either. But because the drawing was just minding its own business existing, perfect and whole before she came along and unearthed it, spilling her emotions, and her tea all over it.

She sighed, his fingers tracing the clean lines of the image and the dark eyes that stared back at her. 

_It’s not your fault, sorry._

She remembered him still so vividly, even without Walt’s handsome drawing staring back at her. He’s stayed with her in small ways, The Cheyenne Indian that had popped out of nowhere and vanished like something out of every ghost movie she’d ever seen. A reminder of her gift, of the _largeness_ of the world she inhabited, and the oldness of the land she lived on. It was as if for one moment the veil was parted; she looked across time and someone from another time had looked _back_. She shivered, little tingles of excitement shooting down her spine.

It had not escaped her notice, the way the Indian had honed in on Walt, and she had just been the person in his arms at the time. Not in the way, exactly, but known. It cut for reasons she could never fully fathom.

_Wally_ , he had called Walter, and no one called him by that name at that point.

It was a childhood name, one that the apparition had somehow known. Walt was still cagey over that and wouldn't discuss it much, he grumbled and shrugged, the kind of shrug that even she couldn't cipher. She suspected there was something more to that, but there was not prying it from Walt who swore even he wasn't really sure. 

That, more than anything, was something she still couldn't forget. It wasn’t like it dogged her every waking thought, but when she did think of that time, it was what she recalled, that and how handsome the Indian’s face had been, how dark his eyes, and so deeply sad. 

It had taken a lot of meditating on the incident, reflecting on what she really saw, when she removed the adrenaline, the shock, and surprise that jumbled her impressions. It had been a sadness that wrenched her heart.

Staring down at the drawing, something Walt had clearly put a lot of time and effort into, Martha realized she had never shared this with Walt. Maybe she should have. There was no time limit to sharing, she supposed. Pulling back when she realized she had been tracing the edge of sharp cheekbones, and the muscled arms of the Indian. God, she was mooning over the image like a teenager over a first crush.

_Stop being ridiculous,_ she thought. 

It really was his best drawing, to be honest. 

She folded her arms, sipping at her tea, chamomile, and honey to soothe the sore throat she could feel coming on. It was flu season; germs were flying around looking for hosts. She was the lucky host it seemed. There was a good chance she could kick it with enough orange juice, nutrients, and throat lozenges. She hadn’t opened her stash of Vitamin C tablets, but it was only a matter of time. She hated getting a cold. Vicks cherry flavor, which was all that was in the cabinet, made her stomach heave. 

Walt, bless him, always got this one thing wrong. She’d asked for tablets and he came back with liquid. He had a stomach like a gridiron; he didn’t get queasy when he downed the nasty tasting medicine. 

She shrugged and decided to get on with it. Now or never, right? She pinched her nose so she wouldn’t have to smell it as she stood over the small sink and tossed back the liquid medicine that was supposed to cut short the flu symptoms she felt creeping in like an uninvited guest. She breathed a sigh of relief when it stayed in her stomach where it needed to be, and didn’t revisit her on its way out. She snatched a Pepsi can from the fridge to wash out the taste. Her nose crinkled as the flavors mixed in her mouth before, finally, all that she tasted was the fuzzy tingle of cold oxidized soda.

To distract herself Martha leaned back in her chair, intently studying the drawing wondering what kind of man he had been in life, what his name might have been. _What would you have made of this world, I wonder. Would you wonder at the utilities and basic necessities that have improved like? Or despair to see how people of all races and color forget the old ways, worshipping the Almighty Dollar?_

She would never know these things, wishing for a name that was impossible to find was an exercise in futility. Whoever the man was he had closed his eyes forever, his spirit traveling the Red Road, long before hers ever opened. 

She could hear Walt banging away at the foundations of the cabin he was building on their land and decided she’d had enough of her own company. The drawing wasn’t so bad, but it wouldn’t _talk_ to her. 

Walt would if she was lucky.

Martha shrugged into her winter coat, wrapped her purple afghan more securely, grabbed the black coffee mug that belonged to Walt, still half full, and exited the trailer that they lived in while Walt worked on what was meant to be their permanent residence between the odd jobs he’d picked up after graduation. Sheriff Lucien would take him on as a deputy, it was only a matter of time -- she had a good feeling about this. She left the drawing where it was, pressed into place by the now dry rim of her tea mug, and followed the sound of hammering. 

She came to a stop a few feet away and leaned against the framework of the cabin, the scent of cedar an odd comfort, her breath fogging in the cold weather as she waited for Walter to notice her presence, it never took long. 

He always seemed to know. He could feel her eyes, he always said, and she accepted that, maybe, he could.

“Martha,” he said before he’d eventually turned to face her. His eyes lighted on the coffee mug and he made adorable grabby-hand motions, his eyes twinkling. 

She passed along the coffee, remembering too late she’d forgotten to reheat it. Walt didn’t seem to mind, downing it like it was fine whiskey or a cold _Rainier_. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, holding the now empty mug in his hand. “I suppose you want to talk, then, about the drawing some more,” he gambled, but he wasn’t tense like he had been last time. He was loose-limbed; cozying up against the boards and drywall he’d gotten up, his boot-tapping habitually as he thought.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, out of the blue. His opening line startled her a little but she trusted Walt as much as he trusted her. 

“Of course I know that,” she said, “the whole town knows that.”

“I don’t love the whole town, I mean, I do, but -- not like that,” he stumbled, his cheeks reddening. It was adorable. “You know what I mean,” he said, running a hand through his hair, which only served to make a mess of it.

“I know, Walter.”

“Okay.”

“The drawing?” she gently prodded, somehow even more curious now than she had been when she decided to press the issue. If only because it would clear the air of whatever it was about it that troubled Walt so much. 

“I, uh, did that shortly after we both saw him -- the Cheyenne Brave. I thought, well, maybe if I could draw the image, put it on the paper I could get it out of here,” he said pointing at his temple. “Kind of memorialized it instead, huh?”

“Walter, why does this drawing bother you?”

“It doesn’t,” he said, quick, not a lie but not a full truth, either. “It doesn’t bother me, Martha, that’s the real trouble.”

She waited, knowing the rest would tumble out.

“The day by the apple tree opened my eyes to something I hadn’t known. I’ve heard people talk about the Kinsey scale of attraction, I’ve read about it too, and how everyone is a little bit drawn towards the same-sex? I just hadn’t figured out that it included _me_.”

“Oh, Walter,” she said, closing the distance between them because she couldn’t _not_. Martha needed to feel him, the bristles on his jaw, and the warmth of his skin because he kept looking at her like she was going to get mad at him.

As if, well, as if she might react like most others in this town might be inclined to react, luckily she wasn't like them. She was only herself. She hoped he knew her better than that. There was nothing he could do, or say, to change her feelings. She knew his heart, his soul, and his body.

It left little room for doubting. 

“So you found one brave handsome, it’s not like you were _stepping out_ on me you know,” she laughed.

It wasn’t a question.

She knew the faithfulness of Walter Longmire’s heart. 

He would never do that.

“So you had a thought -- will it shock you to know I had the same thought? The brave was very handsome, his eyes all but spoke to me. Unfortunately, I cannot draw or I would have done what you did, commemorate the moment with an image to keep the moment paused forever. It was an amazing experience, seeing through time.”

“That wasn’t the experience that stuck with me,” Walt grumbled. “It was him, just him, and I couldn’t get him out of my head. I -- I tried looking at the, uh, men around town seeing if it _happened_ again but it didn’t.”

Martha felt her eyes widen, a little taken back by Walt’s boldness, and how she had never even known this was going on at the time. Walt, her Walt, had felt something for this other man and it had left him rattled. She didn’t know what to say to make it alright again, to take that concern she heard and pluck it right out of his heart.

“But none of that meant I didn’t love you, that I don’t love you, as a man ought to love a _woman_ ,” Walt said, clearly needing her to understand. “It’s you and me, always.”

She did, oh, she understood much better now and she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into the hard strength of his chest, sighing happily when his arms encircled her. “I have never doubted that, Walter Eugene Longmire.”

“Alright, you saw one man, a handsome, Cheyenne, and felt something -- well, I felt something when I saw him, too. Attraction? Yes, yes, but more, too. But there’s nothing wrong with that, you know? Having a moment?”

Walt hummed but said nothing letting her speak now.

“I felt a -- connection. That moment was meant to happen, we three were meant to see each other, for that brief moment. It wasn’t pure chance,” Martha said, knowing it was true the same way she knew other, _strange_ , things.

Things she should not necessarily know. She had been this way since she was a little girl; her Grandmother had slapped her hand with a ruler wherever it happened. The beautiful white and silver cat disappeared and she had said, _‘don’t cry mom, Niko will come home in two days,’_ before toddling off to play in the garden.

Mr. Sutton had been frowning at the newspaper he held in his hand, loudly changing the pages so that she could hear them rub together as they were being reshuffled. Mr. Sutton had been seated at the park bench across from the sheriff's department. He’d been worried about layoffs all week. _‘It will be okay, sir, it’s the man who always smells like alcohol and perfume that’s getting fired,’_ she had explained, whispering softly so no one else would hear.

The next time she saw him he insisted to her mother that he buy her an ice cream. Her mother had been rightly suspicious about a gentleman wanting to buy her daughter an ice-cream but had relented when Mr. Sutton finally caved, admitting that her innocent words had given him hope in a dark moment.

Later, she learned, while sitting on the bench he had been contemplating suicide.

Mother called it a gift, and how it was to be their little secret, her _Uncanny_ trick, and she should never tell anyone else ever again. 

Martha never had.

Grandmother called it a curse. 

Martha didn’t call it anything at all; it was merely something that happened from time to time without either rhyme or reason. Whatever the Creator was up to, she remained in the dark, and that did not concern her much. Life went on, much the same as it always had, but as she grew it happened less and less. She accepted this, and by the time she met Walt it was almost entirely gone, and then there was _The Apple Tree Incident of 1981_.

“I can’t say I understand what I felt, apart from an attraction so sudden and deep that it scared me a little,” Walter said, his chin propped over her head, his hands resting at the small of her back. “It was...unexpected, the dreams, the _wanting_.”

“Hmm, that’s okay, too.”

“Which part?” Walt grumbled.

She swatted his arm. “All of it.”

“We can’t always understand how or why things happen, sometimes that’s just life,” she reasoned, enjoying the little _“hmm”_ sound Walt made in response. Martha pulled away so she could lean up, placing a kiss against his jaw.

“Why are you so okay with _it_ ,” he said, as if he still didn’t quite believe her. Which could not continue, she couldn't stand his doubt. It was a physical ache. “Because,” she said, holding his face between both her hands. “I love you.”

It really was simple, in the end. She was his wife and he loved her; everyone from Sheridan to Absaroka knew that, including her. 

His large hand rough with the calluses of a cowboy traced the curve of her face before he began slowly leading her back to the trailer, their home, and their bed. She laughed, grabbing onto his hand and took the lead. 

Walt followed close on her heels, with desire flickering hotly in his blue eyes. 

The moment their bodies hit the bed, things slowed. It was zero to sixty in reverse, and less zero as a slow, intense 30 as Walt kissed his way down her body, removing articles of clothing at random. She removed her shirt and he unhooked the clasps of her bra; he hummed his approval into her skin. She arched her back, seeking more, always more, of his touch, his hands cupping her in his hands pressing warm kisses into pale flesh.

Walt unbuttoned her jeans, the zipper quickly following, and slid his hand inside. He teased her with gentle flicks, the warmth of his hand seeping into her, making her feel lightheaded and breathless in anticipation.

“Will you --” he asked, his nose buried at her neck, “spread for me?”

Hearing him, like that, his voice a husky growl brushing against her ear was enough to tear a moan from her lips, heat spearing through her in a sharp burst. 

His hot breath hovered at the corner of her mouth. And that was it. She couldn't wait anymore -- it was torture. She canted her hips and, _there_ , that’s what she wanted. His tongue delved into her mouth, _welcome_ , so welcome, and _wanted_ , as his fingers slipped inside her, rubbing and teasing until she was panting into his mouth, and she could feel his tiny grin pressed into the side of her neck as he nipped at her earlobe, _exactly_ how she liked it, enough to leave a mark. 

A reminder, to carry with her tomorrow.

“I want you,” she breaths into his ear, exactly how _he_ liked it.

“Okay,” he agreed, little more than a whisper as if something louder would shatter this moment, and he didn’t want that. She doesn’t either, so she helped, lifting her hips as he tugged down her jeans and they too were discarded; that made one less barrier between his welcome heat and her own. 

“Beautiful -- so damn beautiful,” he murmured, looking at her the way every wife wanted to be looked at by her husband. It was almost enough to unravel her, _almost_ , but not quite.

She beckoned, and he followed crawling between her legs, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

He was teasing again, his hands sliding up her bare skin, as he closed the distance.

He was setting her on fire, and God, she wanted to _burn_. 

Incoherent sounds tumble from her lips, and she didn’t care. The sky could be falling, and she wouldn’t care. Not so long as he kept touching her like that. 

He settled himself between her legs and it felt good -- _he_ felt good.

Everything stilled, right before, as they both drew out the wait, the air growing warm between their bodies, a closeness that was more than physical permeated the moment. She ran her hand up his arms carding her fingers through the fine hairs at the base of his neck, which curled a little, gentle petting, before moving on to stop at his back, nails ever so lightly furrowing, and he groaned, the perfect stillness shattered. 

Then he shifted his weight, fumbling between them and there was pressure, something more than fingers pressing into her core, right where sh _e wanted_ him. His face was serious, fixed on her face as he began moving slow and sweet, as if it were their wedding night, and she tightened her legs around his calves, breathy moans echoing in the small room. 

God, she loved this man. 

Martha wanted him, she knew she would never stop wanting him and the heavy strength of his that pinned her body to the mattress, a protective shield that blacked out the word, as her body unfurled for him, responding to his slightest touch. She clung to Walt’s back, moving in tandem with the slow and steady rocking of his hips. 

There was nothing like it, having Walt inside her, the delicious build up of tension had her gasping, nails digging into the muscle of his back. The way his breath hitched, and his grip unconsciously tightened? That told her he liked it too. 

He was a big man, her husband, and she felt the thick weight of him as she coasted the edge of desire. When they came, it was together. 

“Martha” he said, as if she were the _Virgin Mary_ or _Madonna_ , skirting the lines of blasphemy as he breathed her name into the winter night below the glow of the yellow moon, her name spoken into the air like a sinner's last prayer. 

************

He said _‘I love you’_ without speaking a word. 

It was declared in the silence between each beat of his heart, the gentle touch of his hand, and the affection that shone from his pretty blues. He was an uncommon man, her husband, and she loved him. If history remembered her as the wife of Walter Eugene Longmire, assuming she was remembered at all, then that was more than enough.

************

Martha stared at the ceiling, listening to the whirring of the small heater box that was sitting on the clothes drawer to the left of the bed. The trailer being so small, the space between the bedside and the drawer was little more than two feet, it should have felt claustrophobic, it _really_ should have, but somehow, with Walt half asleep beside her, with his cold feet chilling her ankles, it just wasn’t. It was home.

She watched the play of light across the wall, a pale crescent moon pulling the strings of the shadows that danced on her wall as she drifted between sleep and the waking world. Curiosity nibbled at her -- tickling against her mind as she turned to look at Walt, who was also half asleep and half not.

She grinned, it wasn’t fair perhaps, asking him questions when he was lazy and comfortable, all the cares of the world faded from his face. 

“Walt?” she asked, so low that if he really were asleep he would not hear her. “Hmm?” he asked, his eyes still closed and his breathing growing heavier the closer to sleep he drifted.

“Do you still dream of him?” she asked, her chin propped on her hand as she looked at her husband, still not fully cognizant of what he was saying. It wasn’t a trick, no really, she just wanted to now. If she were to ask him now and he wouldn’t even _remember_ the answer in the morning.

“Hmm,” Walt replied, loquacious as ever. She patted his arm, light and gentle, the weight of feather lighting on his arm, and rolled over to see about getting some sleep.

“From time to time there are strange dreams that come over me,” Walt said, and he was no longer drowsy with sleep. He had turned over on his back, his arms propped behind his head.

“I see a bear charging a young man wearing buckskins as he crouches on a prairie sighting a wild turkey down his rifle, the young man does not hear the bear. I see that same young man fishing in the river, and he is naked as the day he was born. I see...darkness reflected back in the rivers and the creeks, but it is not _mine_.”

Walt stopped, wetting his lips. 

“In the dream, I am not _me_ , but someone else.”

Martha didn’t know what to say; she had expected, perhaps, a groggy, yes or no. But not this, this was beyond her playful expectations for the night. “Perhaps you have a touch of the Uncanny,” she said, repeating what her mother had said to her once upon a time.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart, I think it’s just _him_.”

She strangled back a gasp; she’d had no idea that the experience had been so profound to Walt. That was her fault; Walt was in many ways a simple man with simple desires. A rewarding job, a family, and her, those truly were the three things he revolved around.

She forgot he caught on to things others didn’t -- could _see_ into the heart of matters with a clarity that would do wonders for law enforcement work someday. She knew that was her _Uncanny_ trick kicking up, but she didn’t tell him. Life had a way of happening to a person, after all. He would find his way there on his own two feet.

“Just him, as in…?”

“The Cheyenne Brave.”

“I can’t help it, honey. Truly, I can’t,” Walt said, his words a soft murmur brushing against her ear and settling over her heart. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t ask why. It didn’t matter, did it? She curled into his side, her arm thrown across his chest, her own unconscious claimant on Walt.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Walt.”

Martha’s body was still buzzing from their earlier bout of lovemaking. She was a little tired, but she wanted Walt again, she would always want him, like that, inside her and in her arms. She enjoyed the closeness of their lovemaking, even when she was not aching and wet between her thighs for penetration, being held, and being the one to hold him moved her in indescribable ways. It was satisfying, knowing with this simple act of pressing skin to skin she could make him forget the world and _everything_ in it that was not her.

She wanted that -- to have him, for Walt to look at her and only _her_.

To be the last thought on his mind, the last face he saw, before crashing in a dead sleep.

And the first he saw upon waking in the morning.

Walt loved her and she did not doubt that fact -- it was her that doubted. Something was at work; she could feel it, a low hum of anticipation. Something achingly slow to happen – to the point that all it would take was one strong breeze to cut the strings of fate like so much gossamer and silk, and turn them upon a path more well traveled. It crossed her mind she might have the power to shift the course, but she stayed her hand.

What would come would come, or it would not, that was not for her to decide.

Deep, deep down she suspected she would not see the full picture beginning to form as the threads, tenuous and lights as a caterpillars cocoon began to weave, peddling away at the loom of time itself.

She was afraid, she could admit, of what might manifest.

Though she knew it was pointless and baseless, too. There was the feel of something weighty and almost fated about Walt's experiences; as if he and this man from the past were slowly being drawn tighter, closer, like a circle becoming smaller and smaller with the passage of years. She was being silly -- probably. But the idea had been planted. In that moment by the apple tree she had been the voyeur, the watcher, as Walt stared across time and someone stared back.

Martha wanted her husband, again, so she could prove to herself that this, whatever this became, would not come between _them_. A few touches, a kiss to the notch below his chin, rubbing her smooth cheek against his bristles, and Walt, though half-asleep was half-hard and pliant in her hands. She sighed, loving how quickly he responded to her touch, the slightest kisses, and whisper of skin and his body awakened with interest.

“Hmm, what?” he asked, cracking his eyes open. 

“Again?” she asked, letting the sheet simmer from her body leaving her completely exposed to his lingering gaze as she straddled his thighs, pressing her pelvis against his hardness. “Hmm, that feels nice -- _you_ feel nice.”

“ _Nice_ , huh?” Walt asked, his eyes crinkling, his pretty blues twinkling. He propped himself up on the pillows, supporting her body draped across his lap, his hardness twitching with interest where it nestled between her hips and thighs. 

“Let's do better.”

Martha laughed. “Alright, cowboy.”

She lowered herself onto him until he was deeply seated. “Show me whatcha got,” she said, spurring him into movement with her gentle taunt. 

He had watched, hardly blinking, as he sank into her wet heat. She could feel the delicious thickness of him, deep inside, until there was no more room between, skin to skin. Gasping against his lips, she gave herself over the feeling of being unraveled. 

He set a forceful rhythm and all she could do was hold on, cleaving to him as she was thoroughly undone, holding on to him as they chased the wisp of desire that danced between the rock and thrust of their bodies, joining, parting, and joining once more.

Her body was singing, nerves sizzling, and all that fell from her mouth was his name, nonsensical gasps, as her nails dug into skin as her pleasure crested over her in a relentless wave. His deep masculine moans echoed in the small room, adding tinder to the fire building below her skin.

Martha locked her heels tight around his waist, holding him close, all of him, her arms around his neck, her mouth pressed into his chest, her nails scratching against his back, as she felt every inch of his length thrusting inside. 

Squeezing with all her might, she dragged him over the edge with her. Together, they toppled into white-hot ecstasy made breathless from the frantic desperation that colored their lovemaking. He came, not with a bang, but a _whimper_ , deep inside with her arms around his neck and his body cradled between her thighs.

He groaned, his hands clenching into the white bedsheets. _“_

_Love you,”_ was the last hoarse whisper to pass his lips as his seed spilled deep inside. She rolled off of him; he was already becoming soft, and slowly calmed her breathing.

Walt, ever the dutiful husband, fetched the washcloth. They cleaned up in comfortable silence and Walt, tired from his day and thoroughly exhausted from their lovemaking, promptly drifted off into a deep sleep. He was snorting lightly sprawled across his side of the bed and nothing short of the rooster crowing in the morning or gunfire would wake him.

That night she dreamed of a bear.

It was not doing anything wrong, it merely existed catching fish and other small game to survive. It was a magnificent creature, though also terrifying because of the immense power contained in its claws and fangs.

But she was not terrified as she watched it fish and play alone and it paid her no mind in return as if it did not know she was there at all.

Eventually, it stood up on its back legs and slowly began to cross the river, which had become more turbulent and fast-moving, it was done playing in the water and could no longer linger in-between, and darkness was quickly descending on the plains.

************

The smell of coffee, tea, and grilled fish snapped her from her sleep. She tumbled out of bed, looking a mess she was sure but Walt smiled at the sight of her and kissed her anyhow. 

“Fish?”

“Omar dropped some off early this morning.”

“Mmm, smells delicious!” she said, genuine excitement as something besides their usual fare caused her to grin like she’d won $50 bucks on the lottery machine. 

“Any plans today?” she asked, it was Sunday, which they both always had off work. Sometimes they spent it together and sometimes Walt and Omar Rhodes went off on a male bonding adventure of fishing and hunting for a few hours. 

“Nope, just you, me, and nothing at all that needs doing,” he said, with a suggestive quick of his eyebrow that left her in a fit of giggles. She flicked a pointed look towards the unfinished cabin and he looked contrarily sheepish but entirely unrepentant. 

Good God, how she loved this man, she could write an Ode to _Walter Eugene Longmire_ , but she wouldn’t, instead, she pulled him to the bed, kissed him senseless, and there they remained locked together in love and lovemaking as the world, slowly, passed them by.

_My love has blue, blue eyes_

_Fair as Absaroka skies._

_In his arms,_

_In his heart,_

_All my own true love_

_Lies._

_I will take for my love_

_No other._

_And so with this love_

_My heart, my body_

_Dies._

**_Absaroka, Wyoming: 2007_ **

When Walt met Martha it wasn't love at first sight, but it sure was some kind of something. The kind of something a man knew to hang on to and to cherish. He didn’t see Martha in her white Sunday dress, her hair done up in pretty curls and end up falling helplessly in love like the men in the old romance movies his mom had liked to watch when Dad was out. Martha was a mess, and not the hot kind either. But there was something about her he couldn't get out of his head. She was different from the other girls, and not just because she was so darn smart and cute.

He knew girls, they were smart and cute, too. But not like she was.

Martha was just different. There was something about her, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was there, and he liked it. He liked her. She had a knock out of a stunner smile, too. It could light up a room as far as he was concerned and that didn’t hurt either, that he liked looking at her.

There was earnestness in her, and a warmness that sparked in her eyes, it drew him in like a secret left unspoken.

Teachers knew to call on Martha when they wanted the right answer and he loved to listen to her talk about history and science. She had a pleasing voice, too. It had a smooth, lilting cadence, like the murmur of a meaning brook.

It wasn’t love -- not all at once leastwise. But he knew he could love her, and it would be easy as breathing, with a smile like the one she had. As if nothing could possibly be wrong if she was looking at a person like _that_. 

And he so did, but it didn’t just happen he helped it along. He _chose_ to love her, and when _she_ chose him back they exchanged vows to back it up in front of God, the church, and everyone they knew and loved.

They’d had plans, he and Martha.

This, though, hadn't been in the plan. 

Walt spent his days drifting in a haze; everything was distant and removed shaded in a cloud of gray twilight.

It wasn’t right, her being dead and him still living.

It felt like the worst kind of betrayal that his heart hadn’t physically stopped when hers did in that pale white hospital bed. Walt wished it had because the feeling’s tearing through him were worse than any bullet wound or knifing he’d ever suffered on the job. He’d got to see her one last time, to hold her hand as death came down to collect. But that wasn’t good enough. She was in remission.

It was everything Martha _\-- they --_ had been hoping and praying and dying by inches fighting for, and it happened only to be snatched away by some thug on a street corner or addict looking for an easy score.

He’d kissed her hello just that morning before work, the light scent of _Jo Malone_ tickling his nose, and that night he’d kissed her goodbye with the scent of death and hospital sterilizers under the cold glare of harsh fluorescent lights. 

Cady worried, he knew that, and he was sorry for it. But there wasn’t anything he could say to help her deal with Martha’s death. 

_He_ wasn’t dealing with Martha’s death. He could feel the long march of years ahead of him; days he had planned to spend here on this half-finished porch he stood on with Martha as his side. He’d always figured he’d go on to the Undiscovered County first. Recorded statistics from multiple university research stated that women lived longer than their husbands. He didn’t realize how badly he’d been banking on that until the news came down about _The Cancer_. Cady worried, Omar worried, hell, he even saw a glimmer of concern in Branch's eyes before he started measuring the curtains in his office as he lay in wait for him to retire. 

They weren’t wrong. In fact, they were right, he wasn’t handling this well, just not for the reasons they thought. Death, well, it was never easy but he liked to think he could have dealt with a natural conclusion to a good life. Martha had put up a good fight and an even stronger front while she went through chemo. She had been a hell of a woman, his Martha. They’d held _each other_ up there, at the end. 

But murder? 

A killer on the loose that Durant PD wasn’t looking for hard enough? 

It ate at him like rats chewing through the soft tissue of his belly, a fit of deep, bottomless anger that clawed and scratched for retribution. He rocked back on his heels, thinking, gears turning as he pieced together where she had gone, who she had seen that day, and who had seen her. He looked down at the _John Donne_ book sitting on the edge of the cabin and knelt to pick it up. It was one of Martha’s favorites. 

He stared at it a long while before tucking it under his arm, a small slip of paper fell out and he almost didn’t see it. But he did, it was his _job_ to see things now as the sheriff. Sometimes it happened that people died when he didn’t.

He looked and looked for a long time. Then the sky was blurred and he couldn't see anything at all, grief, pure and ugly, crashed over him and he was drowning in it; the icy black depths of despair had him in its grip, and he couldn't see and he couldn't breath, but he could feel the wetness of tears on his face. He could hear someone making a God-awful racket, and then it struck him. It was _him_ , he was sobbing deep, guttural open-mouthed sobs with only half-enough sense to be glad he was utterly alone. 

There was no one here to witness his unmaking. 

His knees cut out from under him as he collapsed inward and downward, the planks hard on his ass as he hit the ground. He barely felt it, Omar could have taken a two-by-four to him and he wouldn't likely have felt it. 

The loss of Martha was all encompassing; it left no room for anything else.

_My love has blue, blue eyes_

_Fair as Absaroka skies_

_In his arms_

_In his heart_

_All my own true love_

_Lies._

There were no more words to read. Martha had scratched out the rest with black pen and he couldn’t make any of it out. He would never know how it ended, all that it might have said. This poem, like her life, had been cut short and no answers were waiting in the wings. No purpose or explanation. Just life, going _on and on and on_. 

Without her.


	2. Conflagration: 1722

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1722, and Thunder Boy is caught up in the new, and welcome, change that has taken place. He and Standing Bear are lovers.

**_Wyoming: 1722_ **

Standing Bear was a patient man. Thunder Boy knew this very well; it was one of the man's many qualities, right next to the hawk-like intensity of his eyes, and the perfect curve of his ass. Which he’d actually gotten his hands on, around, twice! But he had well and truly botched it this time. He was forgiven, but should he have been, and so easily, too? ‘Learn patience, or life will teach it to you’ Grandfather liked to bark when he’d been anxious as a pup for the teat, chasing every stray desire in his head.

It was his own lack of it that he was ashamed of. Grandfather had been right, again, the crotchety old bastard. When it was about _him_ , Standing Bear, whom he’d been watching and _wanting_ for some time now, well, he tended to not think so clearly. He had hurt him, he knew he had and it bothered him to the point of distraction. 

To the point that food tasted bland, and he loved food like a hungry wolf loved a slow rabbit. It had not been his intention to cause any harm -- not at all -- quite the opposite. He had been overeager, believed that he knew what he was doing and so his friend had let him lead. _The fool, to follow the fool!_ He sighed, resigned and dismayed. No, the fault was his.

Children came, bustling and loud and he paid them no mind, their mother while shooing them off, could be heard to say, “Leave Thunder Cloud to his thinking, he does it so rarely!”

His irritation grew, his cheeks burning hot at the young woman's careless admonishment. He was not like Standing Bear, known for his even-temper and stoic manner, and took offence. Before he could work himself into a lather Hawk Woman fixed him with a stern look and he wilted like a lily below the relentless prairie sun, even though he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. 

“What did you do?” she asked, her arms made wiry and thin from age but strong, folded across her chest. “Hmm, it cannot be so bad that you sulk and frown -- you have not frowned in many years,” she said, eyes shining with mirth.

“No, it does not suit this handsome face,” she said. 

He snorted, amusement at her rare good humor cracking him from his sour mood. “There, much better,” she said, lightly patting his knee as if he were a very small child. He took no offense; he was many winters younger than Hawk Woman. To her eyes, perhaps he was. Even if he had _counted coup_ against the Crow brave, Iron Feather, and stealing his gray pony. It was a fine horse, fast, agile, and loved Standing Bear much more than him. 

If the mare had its pick of riders, it would choose his friend, and how could he blame the animal? Standing Bear was _his_ choice too.

“Standing Bear will be along soon,” Hawk Woman said, with a knowing wink. “Your troubles are no more than a passing cloud, not a storm.”

Hawk Woman left him with those parting words and the discomforting feeling that she knew what his friend was about, while he did not.

Thunder Boy however was not done with his guilt, though, he knew if Standing Bear were present he would not be pleased. Standing Bear was less bothered then he, perhaps, it was more that he was used to disappointment. 

That was what Thunder Boy feared, why he held himself to task if his friend would not. He knew his friend's heart, better than he was believed too. Standing Bear asked for too little, that was his thought in the matter. And it _was_ his fault. Not so bad as he made out as he turned it over and over in his head, but not good either. Perhaps it was unwise for them both to pursue their passions without more carnal knowledge. They both should have wives and children by now, for Standing Bear it was unspoken but understood that this would never come to pass. 

As for him, well, he knew he should want a wife and children, but such thoughts brought nothing but cold emptiness. He knew his friend -- he was too honorable to lie with a man who had taken a wife.

In the end, though, he was the one who lacked patience and in a moment's reckless passion his haste had caused harm. 

It bothered him that it did not bother Standing Bear _more_. His apologies had been shushed and waved aside.

“All is well,” Standing Bear had assured him, he’d been a little sheepish looking at him through his down turned face. 

They had done _other_ , very nice, things together instead.

It was not like the time in the river when they were both wet and desperate for touch, his skin hot from the midday sun. He had pressed naked flesh to naked flesh and found within the thrill of the body he held being _Standing Bear_? Who he wanted above all others? It had been too much to resist. He could not last and spilled his seed shamefully soon. 

There had been a time of confusion when he realized Standing Bear had only held him back only lightly, his expression uncertain. He had acted without entirely thinking it through and then come across Standing Bear’s wet clothes and skin like an untried youth. 

His face heated as he recalled it, Standing Bear’s strong body flush to his, half-hard and leaning into him slightly. Then he had come, before there was a chance for more! 

He had feared he had ruined the trust that existed between them, his brain a little muddled by the need coursing through his veins. 

But when Standing Bear came to him and spoke? It was then he had known _all was well_. Standing Bear did not speak words he did not mean. 

He had said to him he missed Thunder Boy like the wolves missed the moon. It had to be a lot, for it seemed to Thunder Boy on those nights the howls were sadder and longer stretching throughout the night until morning with their piercing heart-songs. 

Thunder Boy paused his reflection, his face set in a deep scowl, very unlike his usual manner. He needed certain, private knowledge, but would certainly not ask any in his tribe. This was a very intimate matter and not meant for gossiping tongues. He thought and thought but in the end, could only find one answer.

It made him very uncertain, but all he had to do was recall the soft pained gasp of his lover, as he entered him to know that something had to be done. Or there could be no more sex.

He was foolish, yes, and reckless on occasion, but he was _not_ a boor.

Standing Bear loved him much -- _wanted him equally --_ no doubt, to be willing to try such a thing.

But until he had found a way to make it not hurt, or hurt _less_ , there would be no more sex, which was a pity. He enjoyed the press of his lover to his naked flesh. He kicked at the rocks under his moccasins, with a scowl like a thundercloud.

He drifted back in memory, remembering the sliding of skin, delicious friction that made him gasp and arch into Standing Bear, finding mutual release with friction and hands rubbing and teasing in turn until release made their bodies limp and pliant in the aftermath. It was good. So much so that they had tried something more, he’d laid atop Standing Bear, blanketing him with the heat of his body. Thrilled when his friend allowed it, content to hold him between his thighs, his look so trusting that it moved his heart.

On that one time, it had not been so good. Standing Bear had insisted he continue, though his own hardened flesh had softened, pulling him close and holding him tightly to his body. It had been easy to lose himself in Standing Bear. 

His face had become that odd calm mask he wore so often that made him hard to read, so Thunder Boy read his body instead. He tried it, thrusting a few times, and it had felt _tight_ , and _hot_ , and _good_. He’d closed his eyes, pleasure slowly cresting through his throbbing hardness at the feel of Standing Bear spread out beneath him, his arms wrapped tight at his hips. 

His friend had made a small, displeased sound but had only tightened his grip on him. Afraid to let him go? He wondered now, why _Standing Bear_ had been concerned and insistent. Good for him, he realized. But not so for his lover who had bitten hard into his lip deeply enough that blood dotted his chin, so he had withdrawn. 

Noticing the wince his lover couldn’t hide from his carefully watching eyes as he did so. This time Standing Bear did not argue and that was that on the matter of sex. 

Thunder Boy was resolved to find a solution. He doubted he was the only man alive that had looked at his fellow man and found him striking beyond measure and reason; it was worth the trouble of a little thinking. Love, after all, had little to do with logic or reason, it just was. If there was reason to be found here, it was that Standing Bear was his equal and his opposite. He made the man smile, and Standing Bear gave him reason to temper his rash actions. 

He shook his head. _Focus._ What could make the act of lovemaking easier? He sat down on a log, deep in thought when Standing Bear approached, pulling him to his feet with a strong grip.

“Where are we going?” he asked, hurrying after.

Standing Bear shot him a look over his shoulder, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “For a walk, if you like?” he asked.

Thunder Boy almost swallowed his tongue.

“You found a solution to our problem?”

“I have.”

It was easy to slip away from the others. They were no longer boys with minders watching them, which made _this_ so much easier. 

Thunder Boy swallowed, his heart galloping like a runaway horse. He wanted to, there was no question about that, but Standing Bear had not spoken since first motioning for him to follow. It never crossed his mind not to follow Standing Bear, wherever he led.

In his anticipation, he tripped over a rock and almost cracked his head on the way down. Standing Bear spared him the knock to the head, catching him by the shoulders, their balance tipped sending them crashing sideways into an old hollow oak. He laughed, wiping away the sliver of blood that welled on his chin. 

“They will think you beat me!” he chortled, shaking his head. 

Standing Bear did not laugh, wiping the blood with his thumb. “Have more care with yourself, Thunder Boy,” he said with strange gravity. As if a spot of blood were reason to fret. 

Thunder Boy remembered a young boy with haunted eyes, cuts from branches and rocks like claws on his face, and began to understand. 

“It is well, I should mind my feet,” he admitted, “had other things on my mind,” he said, and they shared a knowing look, the seriousness from before vanishing as Standing Bear’s face cracked, a grin ghosting across his lips.

“Good.”

A man of few words, that one, but he knew that already. Thunder Boy began shucking clothes off letting them fall where they would. Standing Bear took more time, laying them aside in a single neat pile of cloth. When they were both bare to one another's eyes nimble fingers began at the top of his ribs, skating down to grasp the thick weight of his length. Thunder Boy watched, enjoying the attention, his skin warming in the places that his lover touched.

The barest of touches from the other man had left Thunder Boy half-hard, straining for more, his eyes dilated and wild with hunger.

Standing Bear locked eyes with Thunder Boy as he sank to his knees without speaking a word.

Thunder Boy used the rough bark at his back to keep himself anchored, his hardened length aching for touch. His lover did not disappoint, taking him into his mouth. He groaned his need, deep and guttural, his hips bucking hard into wet heat.

Standing Bear made a small, choked sound around his length that brought him back to the moment.

He withdrew, a small frown touching the corner of his face, and roughly pinned Thunder Boy with a tight grip at his hips, growling.

“Hold still.” 

Thunder Boy nodded, his eyes clenching shut as he restrained the hunger that he knew would only deepen. Hands, rough with calluses, squeezed the base of his hardness, steadying, as Standing Bear slowly sucked him deeper with each bob of his head until he’d swallowed him whole. Thunder Boy let go of the tree, pulling gently at his lover's hair instead.

“Good -- _so_ good,” he gasped, swallowing as his hips rocked against the hands holding him still. Wanting to chase the wet heat of his mouth. It was useless, though he tried, Standing Bear’s grip was strong as iron.

Standing Bear pulled off, to speak. 

“Do not come, not yet,” he warned.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Thunder Boy replied, wanting that mouth _back_ and on him. He groaned, the hand in Standing Bear’s hair tightening. _Too tight, too hot, too much,_ he thought his mind beginning to spiral. _Not yet, patience,_ he thought with an inner voice that began to sound like his lover.

He traces a finger along his lovers’ spit slick lips. He couldn't help it, the urge to touch with an excuse to allow it was too much to resist. The man’s gaze was sharp and focused, and Thunder Boy couldn’t resist the urge to press two fingers inside his mouth.

Kneeling at his feet Standing Bear sucked on it, light and tentative, his eyes hooded and full of desire. This was new to them both but some things were instinctive. 

His own mouth fell open, the visual made his breathing ragged, and Thunder Boy had to close his eyes against the desire rolling in his gut. It was too much, seeing his lover on his knees, pleasuring him, looking as good as he did. 

Standing Bear hummed, the sound making Thunder Boy yelp, surprise and pleasure sparking through him, his body aching for release.

The air felt cold on his length absent the heat of his lover's mouth. His blood was burning for _more_.

“Soon,” he heard Standing Bear say, gentling and soothing. 

Thunder Boy opened his eyes to see Standing Bear on all fours at his feet smearing something viscous between his buttocks. He inhaled sharply at the sight. Standing Bear. Opening himself in preparation for their joining. His intense dark-eyes lust-filled and fixed entirely on _him_. 

_Oh Creator, give me patience._ To be the one he chose -- to see the other man like that, beneath the dappled afternoon light? 

The smooth line of his back, skin shades lighter than his own, the curve of his ass, his strong legs, his head turned to the side to watch Thunder Boy from the corner of his eye. It was enough to steal all the words in his head and still the turning of his thoughts.

“Well?” Standing Bear asked, prodding him into action. 

He sounded almost nervous, which was unusual, and not allowed today.

Thunder Boy dropped to the ground beside him, his hands running down the naked flesh presented to him, a rough caress from hip to calves that the other man arched into as skin pressed into skin. His length was still wet with spit and he went slowly, but he was not a small man.

Standing Bear gasped, and he paused, drawing out the intensity of the moment as he held himself in perfect stillness. Standing Bear gave a sharp nod, asking for more, and leaned forward with his body braced on his forearms. 

It was much easier this time, and he watched as he disappeared. It was tight and good. Thunder Boy could tell. 

His lover was hard, his breathe heavy only with anticipation, not pain. He loved it, how Standing Bear _melted_ into him, grinding into his touch, taking him deeper. 

The first thrusts were tentative. 

Thunder Boy rocked back, pulling Standing Bear with him part of the way, and then he filled him again, his breath ghosting over the back of his neck, laying down open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck.

“I am going to --,” he groaned, his breath ragged as he focused on the building tension. “I -- can’t wait.”

Standing bear reached back, entangling their hands, and he felt how it trembled and grit his teeth. 

_Patience._ He reminded himself, as he too trembled. He could do this one thing to please the other man. He would, for _him_ , he would. He kept a steady pace, feeling how Standing Bear clenched around him. _So good, so good._

Standing Bear was gasping with him now, rocking back into him with hard slaps that he would surely feel tomorrow. Thunder Boy groaned, shifting until he was pressing against the spot that made Standing Bear grunt, louder now, and shudder.

“Come --” Standing Bear instructed, squeezing his hand painfully.

“Come inside me, Thunder Boy.”

And he did. He thrust forward, pressing naked skin to naked skin deepening where their bodies joined until he was grinding hard and desperate into Standing Bear. His length throbbed, spilling into the clenching heat of him, encouraged by Standing Bear’s bruising grip on his hand and the way he shakes and shudders under him, coming with a groan.

Thunder Boy's arms shook with the effort of holding himself upright. He only just barely managed, before rolling into his back at his lovers’ side. The rocks and twigs that littered the ground dug into his skin but he barely felt them as he slowly evened out his breathing, staring up into the blue sky.

He snuck a look at the Standing Bear, though why he felt shy _now_ was beyond him, considering what they had just done. Standing Bear had come too he was pleased to see. 

_Next time I will use my hands,_ he vowed and his gaze lingered on Standing Bear’s mouth, which he had yet to kiss though it had worked magic on his naked flesh. 

Still worn from sex, but wanting one more thing, Thunder Boy leaned over slotting their mouths together. He wanted to know the kisses of his mouth, the taste of his salty sweat-slick skin, and sought to devour and be _devoured_. 

His tongue swiped across Standing Bear's lips, seeking entrance _immediately_ , and once those lips part, he dived in, swallowing a few moans as they shared breath before parting. 

Thunder Boy broke away, with a self-satisfied grin. “More of that next time,” he said, though it was also a question, in the way he watched and studied Standing Bear who smiled, slow and lazy, and _bright._

“Yes,” he agreed. 

“Next time,” Standing Bear said, meeting his gaze directly, humming with quiet contentment, as they both understood that this would happen _again and again and again_. 

For so long as time allowed.

************

Standing Bear was not a man of many words, but he showed his love when he laid bare his body and spirit. When he trusted Thunder Boy to please not only _himself_ , by Standing Bear. Thunder Boy was his _trusted_ companion, friend, and lover. And that was speaking from a man who watched the world in the guarded ways that Standing Bear did. He knew what he had, and he planned to keep it, and be _kept_ in equal measure. The voice of his heart was not loud and booming, like him, but that was alright -- he had learned how to listen.

And he heard it, in a million little ways; that was how he knew, he was loved in _return_. 

************

His lover slept the sleep of the contented and well pleased. Thunder Boy watched feeling something besides his hardness stirring with deeper feelings. Perhaps it was strange to do so, to watch while Standing Bear was so vulnerable. But he could not tear his eyes away from his friend who was so strong, and fearless, and he hoped --- _his_.

If not tonight, then _soon_.

Since the time by the river, everything had fallen into place and he realized what he wanted. If he wanted sex, a simple uncomplicated thing to acquire, he could have paid a prostitute at some brothel in some town he would never visit more than once. This, though, had the feel of something more. He ached, not only with his flesh but also with his heart and his spirit, which cleaved to this man who lay sleeping at his side. 

Standing Bear slept, sound and deep and he felt like a man ten times his size. It was trust alone that let him drift off as if he were a man without a care in the world. It was a powerful thing to have somehow earned from a man who did not hand it out easily. He must have known Thunder Boy would be there when he finally woke. And if not, he would learn.

So he watched, uncaring if it were odd or strange. He had an excess of affection singing within his heart and looking at Standing Bear, peaceful without the concerns of the waking world heavy on his shoulders, set him at ease. The play of light over his naked body was worth observing, too, beneath the bright coldness of the pale orange moon. The trees divided the shadows and below there swaying branches his lover was halved in their oscillating nighttime glow, his face hidden in the shadow of his arm.

Standing Bear’s white bead, always around his neck, began to glow brightly enough that his lover's face was lit up with an unearthly brightness. But he did not wake. Staring into that strange glow Thunder Boy resisted the urge to shake the other mans’ shoulder. He decided he would not wake him. Let the white light glow and the winds crack against the night skies. On he slept, undisturbed, half curled toward Thunder Boy, seeking the warmth of his body and stilling from his restless dreams at the touch of his hand. Thunder Boy made no move to change that.

_Let him sleep._

Wings fluttered overhead, and when Thunder Boy lifted his gaze he looked into the orange-yellow eyes of an owl perched overhead and his heart turned to ice, sudden coldness sweeping through him. _You cannot claim him,_ he thought staring back at the bird his expression pinched and fierce with determination. _You cannot._

Thunder Boy did not sleep a wink that night. He prayed to the Creator for a reprieve as he watched over the rise and fall of Standing Bear's chest. Thunder Boy was gripped by the fear that the spirit of death might swoop down and claim him as he slept. _Please, not him._

His prayers were answered; with a great flap of its wings, the owl took flight in the twilight hours when the word became gray as the darkness of night retreated. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for the sun to rise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _TIME LINE EXPLINATION:_
> 
> Standing Bear: 1715 “To Be Better, For Want of Love” begins with him roughly 14 years old. Then “omniscient author” dictated that there are “7 good years.”
> 
> Thunder Boy and Standing Bear become friend and have their quiet unspoken “I like you, but I’m not saying it first” song and dance, culminating with Thunder Boy taking actions at the “river” in the end of the chapter.
> 
> If my “character age” time-line holds true then Standing Bear is 23 and the year is 1722 at the closing of “To Be Better, For Want of Love”, and Thunder Boy somewhere close to his age bracket.
> 
> Therefore, “How He Says It (Without Speaking)” picks UP almost exactly where “To Be Better, For Want of Love” ended.
> 
> _IF you’ve read to this point you are a gem and a saint and have my undying gratitude._

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note: This is part 1 of an idea sparked by a reader (you know who you are) asking about the APPLE TREE INCIDENT OF 1981. When I was writing I decided I wanted Henry and Walt's separate loves, Martha and Thunder Boy, to ruminate on _them_ and allow them a voice. I will leave it to you, Dear Readers, to decide it it was poorly or well done. 
> 
> PS: I am still new to love scenes (have mercy!) 😅
> 
> Enjoy?!
> 
> _Hint: There are (light) elements of foreshadowing to SOTS scattered throughout._


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